


</3 (but no don't worry it's happy I swear no I'd never hurt them I promise)

by mysteriouslypeculiar



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: HOOOOOOOO BOYYYY, I showed this. To my MOM, I'm really proud of this one, I'm so proud of this story I showed it to my mom, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, MY MOM READ THIS GUYS, SHE READ THIS STORY, Sad (tm), Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, This Is Sad, f slur (used on self), it's a happy ending!!!!!!, stan's just a sad boy, they're HAPPY!!!!, this is kinda-not-kinda a vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriouslypeculiar/pseuds/mysteriouslypeculiar
Summary: “Shit.” Stan cursed. He raised a hand, anxiously running it through his curls, disrupting the sweat-dampened coils and peeling his curly fringe off of his forehead.He scribbled at the lined paper at his desk, to which he was cursing at. The letter had to be perfect. He was almost done. Almost done writing out his thoughts. Almost done putting down the words he was too much of a coward to say out loud. And once he was done with the letter, he could finally be done with everything else.***Takes place a small bit after the events of the first movie.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	</3 (but no don't worry it's happy I swear no I'd never hurt them I promise)

“Shit.” Stan cursed. He raised a hand, anxiously running it through his curls, disrupting the sweat-dampened coils and peeling his curly fringe off of his forehead. 

He scribbled at the lined paper at his desk, to which he was cursing at. The letter had to be perfect. He was almost done. Almost done writing out his thoughts. Almost done putting down the words he was too much of a coward to say out loud. And once he was done with the letter, he could finally be done with everything else. 

“Shit shit shit shit-” He let out a steady stream of whispered curse words, as he crossed and re-crossed his last few sentences. It needed to be perfect. It was the last thing his friends would have of him. He needed it to be perfect.

And so he wrote. And wrote. The blue ink of his pen turning his messy script into a hazy ocean, his sorrowful words turning into the twisted cry of a siren, beckoning him into the depths. He wasn’t writing the letter for his friends anymore, no, he was writing it for himself. He was writing it to further himself into his thoughts, as if he needed further convincing that he was really about to do what he was about to do. 

He finished his letter. He finished it, swirling his last letter and carefully wiping his eyes so that his tears didn't drop onto the paper. However, it proved futile, as a stray tear fell from between his fingers, falling and landing on the center of the page. 

Falling and smudging a word. Smudging two: "I'm sorry." 

Stan held in his sobs. He didn't have time to re-write it. It would have to do. 

He folded it carefully, making sure the edges lined up perfectly. 

Finally, he addressed the letter.

"The Losers" he wrote. He smiled sadly at the silly name of his friend group. Who had even come up with that? 

The thought of his friends only made him sob once more, but he continued. Slowly, he stood.

Stan turned on the tap in his bathroom, the letter taped carefully to the door he had locked behind him.

He knew, however, that the lock on his bathroom was old and broken. It really only took one good yank and the door would crash open. It was more of a ritual than anything else. If you're going to kill yourself, at least lock the door. 

The rushing tap obscured any outside noise, but Stan would not have heard it anyway. He was much too busy pacing inside the cramped room: walking from toilet to bathtub then back to the toilet. 

His body shook with sobs and he could taste the snot on his lips. Normally, he would be revolted, but in the moment, it was fitting. He would die hideous, the same way he had lived.

Stan heard a voice but it sounded far away; he was too far into his thoughts to really notice his surroundings. 

Carefully, he opened his medicine cabinet and removed the small box that held his razor blades, the blades that had become his close friends recently. 

He carefully took them into his hands and pulled up his sleeves, revealing the mess that was his arms. 

Old scars, new scars, barely even scabbed over scars. His forearms looked like a weird crossword puzzle. 

He'd even written a few words- namely "ugly" and "fag".

Shuttering, he pressed the blade onto his wrist.

One swipe, two swipes, nothing out of the ordinary of his near-daily ritual. He was keeping a tally on his arms- a line for every time he did something wrong, every time he messed up or didn’t do well in school, every time he was a failure or a coward or worthless or-

His fingers slipped as he sobbed, the blade traveling farther than he meant it to, cutting deeper than he had intended. Blood seeped out, wetting his fingers and making the blade slippery in his hand. 

He sobbed, nearly dropping the blade into the sink, but he caught it, slicing the tips of his fingers as he scrambled to grab it. 

He didn’t hear the front door open. He didn’t hear the thuds of sneakers on wooden stairs, didn’t hear the desperate calls of his own name, the rapidly approaching sounds of someone running, searching for something. No, searching for some _ one _ .

Searching, searching...found.

The door to the bathroom crashed open. Stan jumped back in shock, the blade clattering into the sink. Stan rushed to grab it back up but a pair of strong hands wrapped around his own.

He hadn’t heard Bill knock on the door, hadn’t heard him enter the house- he knew that Andrea Uris always left a spare key under the Poinsettia pot. Stan hadn’t heard Bill calling his name, hadn’t heard him walk up the stairs of his too empty, too  _ quiet  _ house. He hadn’t heard him stop outside the bathroom door, didn’t hear him take the letter and read it. He hadn’t heard Bill’s heart shatter into a million pieces, before rushing to reform so that it could beat wildly in his chest.

But he did hear the door burst open. He did hear Bill gasp. He heard him cry out, felt him take his hands into his own, gently pulling Stan away from the sink. He vaguely registered Bill placing a towel on the floor, smoothing the edges out. He didn’t fight as Bill pulled him into a sitting position on the towel, his back resting against the bathtub. He didn’t fight Bill hovering over him, barely even registering the words that Bill was saying. 

A stinging sensation jolted him back to life and everything was suddenly wholly coherent. And it hurt. He wanted to go back to feeling nothing, hearing nothing, nothingnothingnothing.

“I’m suh-sorry, it’s ruh-rr-ruh-rubbing alco-alcoh-hol. To cluh-cluh-cl-clean them.” Bill said, as he dabbed a pink- once white -washcloth on Stan’s forearm. 

Stan didn’t object as Bill wrapped a bandage around his arm. The cuts weren’t even deep enough to do any lasting damage. They’d just scab over, then scar, and he’d be left with a few more reminders of how weak he is. And now Bill knew too. 

Shit. Bill knew. 

Bill stuck a band-aid on the gauze, to prevent it from unwinding (he’d never taken a first aid class. Stan, however, had gotten relatively good at cleaning and wrapping his wounds.) He sat back on his legs, kneeling in front of Stan. 

His brilliant blue eyes met Stan’s and Stan’s breath caught in his throat. 

You see, Stanley Uris kept a list in his head, a mental tally, if you will, of all the things wrong with him, of all the reasons he didn’t deserve his friends or nice things or happiness or to live.

Recently, however, he began to keep that list in writing, hidden in the pages of his journal, which was hidden in the depths of his pristinely organized underwear-and-socks drawer. 

That list was then re-written and added to the bottom of the Letter that had been taped to the door of the bathroom. 

The list had superficial entries, such as: 

_ “your hair is always a mess and it never, and will never, looks good. _ ” 

And 

_ “your teeth are crooked and they make a weird whistling sound if you breathe wrong.”  _

and even 

_ “you’re just so ugly.”  _

However, the genuine reasons, the ones that truly bothered him, were bolded, written over many, many times. These entries were the motivation behind the majority of Stan’s scars. 

And it all came back to his stupid breath hitching when Bill Denbrough made eye contact with him. 

It all came back to the word “fag” carved into his arm-if anyone saw it, he’d claim it was Henry Bowers, but either no one saw, or no one cared, because no one ever asked. It all came back to his own stupid feelings, how not only was he ugly, and a coward, and weak, and useless, but he was also gay. Gay and in love with Bill Denbrough, one of his best friends. 

But it was on his list.

_ “You just had to be gay, didn’t you?” _

And it was in his note. 

_ “I’m in love with you Bill. Always have been. God, I know this will ruin how you guys see me, but it’s not like I’ll be around to care.” _

And now Bill knew. 

Shit. Bill _ knew _ . He knew everything now.

And he was still looking at him. Still looking into Stan’s eyes, his eyebrows scrunched up in concern, the same way he’d looked at him after the pact they all made at the end of summer. 

“Stan, pluh-please duh-duh-don’t go.” Bill said quietly. He took Stan’s hands into his own, carefully holding them. “Please. Duh-duh-don’t-” Bill looked away, his words getting caught in his throat as he held back sobs. 

“I won’t.” Stan said. And he meant it. Seeing how much pain this put Bill through? And Stan hadn't even succeeded. 

God he was so selfish. He never thought of anyone but himself. 

“ _ Selfish. You never think of anyone but yourself _ ”

But that contradicts another point he made, where he stated that 

“ _ your friends would be better without you. You just bring them down _ .”

Bill was still talking, stuttering through words that Stan wasn’t even paying attention to. 

He should pay attention. He should listen. He should-

"I luh-luh-luh-,  _ shit _ . I fuh-fucking luh-love you Stan, p-puh-please. Please don't guh-go anywhere." He was rambling, rambling on and on. Saying things. Saying things he didn't mean. Saying things he  _ couldn't _ me. Not now, not now that he knew how disgusting he was. He was just trying to make Stan feel better. He didn't mean it. He didn't know what he was saying.

"Bill, stop. Stop. Please." Stan said, voice breaking and throat hoarse. 

"What?" Bill said, ripped from his stupor. 

"Please. Don't pity me. I'm sorry for worrying you." He pulled himself away from Bill, out of his warm, comforting arms that felt so good. So safe. 

_ Too good. Too safe. _

Stan's heart snapped into pieces when he saw Bill's expression. 

_ Selfish. Coward. Pathetic. _

"Stan, I-"

"Stop it, Bill!" Stan said, his voice coming out louder than he wanted it to. Bill flinched, leaning away from him.

_ Good. You can't hurt him if he doesn't want to be near you. _

Stan could see the tear tracks on Bill's face, Bill's beautiful face. He did that. He made Bill cry. 

"Please," Stan pleaded, voice deflated, the anger in his voice gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not!" Bill said. "I'd nuh-never lie to you. Never. Stuh-Stan. Stan, pluh-please." Bill took Stan's hands once more. Stan didn't pull away. "You are the buh-best thing that's ever happened to muh-me. I duh-don't know what I'd do without you. You have to buh-believe me." 

Bill didn't take his eyes off of Stan, his eyes filled with the same look he had that day at Neibolt. He wasn't lying. He meant it. 

Stan nodded, his  ugly curls bouncing on his head. He just wanted to rip them all off. 

Bill sighed, relief briefly covering his face. He wrapped his arms around Stan. 

"I love you." Bill whispered. "I muh-mean it. I nuh-know this isn't a guh-guh-good time, buh-but I really, ruh-really mean it."

Stan let out a dry sob, the pipes now too dry to carry more tears. 

“Thank you, Bill. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice cracked and wobbled. 

“No, duh-don’t be. We’ll guh-get through this. Promise. It’s okay. You’ll buh-be okay.” Bill held Stan tightly, no longer afraid that Stan was going to shatter into a million pieces like a piece of fine china.

“Thank you, Bill. Thank you so much.” Stan whispered thank you after thank you. He didn’t think an amount of ‘thank you’s’ could ever suffice to explain how grateful he was for Bill in that moment. Sure, he was a little bit miffed that he didn’t get to die, but maybe, one day, he wouldn’t want to die. And future him would be very mad at passed him if passed him died because then future him wouldn’t even exist. Paradox. 

Stan shook his head, trying to escape the hypotheticals. 

“I should be thuh-thanking you.” Bill said, pulling Stan back into reality. His voice was low and Stan could feel his warm breath on his ear. “Thank you for living. I duh-don’t know how luh-long you’ve been struh-struggling, god it’s buh-b-been a long time huh-hasn’t it, shit, why didn’t I fig-hure it out, sh-shit, Stan, I’m so fuh-uhcking  _ sorry  _ we all just  _ suh-sat there  _ and let you suffer. None of us  _ noticed _ . Shit, I’m so sorry.” 

“Bill.” Stan said, pulling away slightly so that he could look Bill-their-heroic-leader in his beautiful blue eyes. “This isn’t your fault. It isn’t. I promise. I hid it from you. I didn’t want you guys to see. I didn’t want you to know, to see how weak I was.” 

“You’re not wuh-weak, Stan. You’re so struh-strong. You’ve been sticking it out for suh-so long. That takes guts. You’re brave, and stuh-strong and so, so,  _ so  _ incredible. I don’t nuh-know how to get you to believe me. I need you to buh-believe me.”

“I believe you, Bill.” He did. He believed that Bill saw him like that. He believed that Bill Denbrough saw him, Stanley Uris, as brave and strong and so, so, so incredible. And though he didn’t exactly agree, well, knowing that someone else thought that, let alone the love of his fucking life, it made him feel at least a little bit better about himself. 

Bill’s eyes lit up and he smiled, a small hesitant smile and Stan mimicked it, an identical shy smile spreading across his face. 

“I know this isn’t the buh-best time, but I nuh-need you to know. I really, ruh-really like you Stan. I really do.”

Stan felt his face heat up and he smiled just a bit wider. 

“Thank you, Bill. I really, really like you too.” He said. Of course, Bill already knew that. He’d read it in his note. Which was the only reason Bill was telling him now.

Stan tried his best to ignore the thoughts that whispered ‘ _ pity. He does it out of pity. _ ’ because he truly wants to believe. For the first time since he can remember, Stan lets himself believe that something good might be happening for him. 

A yawn escapes Stan’s mouth, not exactly ruining the moment, but still pulling the pair from their simultaneous reveries.

“Crying can really duh-drain you, huh?” Bill said, giving Stan that side-ways smile that he used to pretend was reserved just for him. Maybe there was a grain of truth in that, after all. 

Stan nodded, drowsiness rushing him so fast, he could barely think. 

“C’mon. Naptime.” Bill said, as he stood up. He pulled Stan up as well, careful to avoid the bandages. 

Even when Stan was fully upright, Bill kept his hands in his own, leading him like a child to his bed. 

Stan practically jumped into the bed, or, rather, he gracelessly flopped onto the pristinely made bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. 

He felt Bill sit next to him, the mattress sinking with his weight.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Stan reached out, taking Bill’s hand into is own. 

“Stay with me?” He asked. He registered the fact that he sounded pathetic, but in that moment, it didn’t even stand a chance at bothering him.

“I’m nuh-not going anywhere. I’ll buh-be right here when you wuh-wake up. I swear.” 

As he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, it was the first time in what felt like ages that Stan felt at peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> You really have no idea how much it means to me that you read this. I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> I have a second part in mind, so stay tuned!!!


End file.
